


Five Rooms, Four Nights, Three Cities, Two Guys – and That One Friend of Theirs

by kutubiyya



Series: Snapshots [6]
Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: Confessions, Flirting, M/M, On-going misunderstandings, Please Don't Hate Me, UST, sort of an AU in which Swanderson isn't a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-20 15:29:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2433776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kutubiyya/pseuds/kutubiyya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there are shenanigans in the dressing room and various hotel rooms, and Swanny is not giving up until he knows what’s going on with Jimmy.</p><p>NB Unlike other instalments in this series, 'Five Rooms...' has multiple chapters. Reads and comments welcomed!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. #viewofaroom: Training camp dressing room, Dubai

**Author's Note:**

> Set before and during the tour of India in 2012. A significantly lengthier-than-usual snapshot, so I've split it into four chapters. Pretty much entirely SFW, except for one paragraph of Jimmy fantasising towards the end of the opening chapter.
> 
> This first chapter was written prior to KP's recent allegations re. the team culture; hopefully the dressing room banter here stays the right side of good-natured.
> 
> NB Just a quick cameo from Root in chapter 1, but he has a larger role in chapter 4 :)

**#viewofaroom: Training camp dressing room, Dubai. A semi-controlled chaos of socks, bats, and pranks**

When the squad assembles for the start of the pre-India training camp in Dubai, it’s fair to say they’re in high spirits.

That’s the polite, mature way of saying they’re like a bunch of twelve-year-olds on their first ever night away from home with their mates. Except without the casual violence.

Well, mostly without the casual violence. With Ian Bell in the room, reflects Jimmy, nothing can be peaceful for long.

As if on cue, the door to the dressing room swings open; Samit Patel walks in, with Jonathan Trott close on his heels. They’re late for the team meeting, and both cast guilty glances in the direction of Captain Cook and Andy Flower, who are poring over laptops at the other end of the room. Maybe the latecomers are off their guard because of the guilt, or maybe they’re just tired, but whichever it is, when Belly hands them each a can of Coke from his station by the door, neither of them bats an eyelid.

Now, granted, the innocence of Belly’s smile could _almost_ be convincing. If you hadn’t just watched him – as Jimmy has – spend the past few minutes shaking both cans vigorously. And, well, if you’d never met him before. But really. Jimmy briefly considers warning the pair, then decides they deserve everything they get for (literally?) sleepwalking into Belly’s trap.

As they pick bench spots and drop their kitbags, an expectant hush settles over the dressing-room. (They miss that hint, too.) At almost exactly at the same time – really, Belly couldn’t have planned this better – they each flick back the ring-pull on their cans.

Brown fizz explodes right in each of their faces.

Samit bellows. Trotty drops his can, swipes a hand across his eyes, catches sight of Belly trying and failing to keep a straight face. There’s a frozen moment, then Trotty’s diving across the room and Belly’s lunging for the door and they’re clattering away down the corridor, chased by their teammates’ laughter.

Samit watches them go, shrugs, and downs what’s left in the can in one. As the general amusement subsides, Root – the new kid who can’t possibly be as young as he looks, but makes Jimmy feel old even so – wanders over with a grin, and hands Samit a towel. For all the kindness of the gesture, there’s a glint in the kid’s eye, like he’s plotting something, and Jimmy makes a mental note to keep his wits about him. A junior Belly in training, if ever he saw one.

At times like this, a mere dressing room isn’t big enough to contain their giddy energy. Even KP, back from the wilderness through the auspices (it's said) of Matt Prior and Ali, is grinning and looking relaxed.

Not everyone’s laughing, though. Out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy spots Stuart Broad, his back to the room as he stands staring out of a high window, arms folded, oblivious to the action behind him. Jimmy leans across a small, precarious, tower of spare arm guards to tap Swanny on the shoulder.

“Everything okay with Broady?”

Swanny looks over at the other man, and frowns. “Hey, Broadsword,” he calls. “Seen something you like?”

Broady doesn’t react. (Which is, of course, an invitation for his teammates to try harder to make him look. Because they’re twelve.)

Matty, sitting across the way, tilts his head to give the tall seamer a considering look. “His reflection, maybe?”

Jimmy glances to the far end of the room, where Ali and Flower show no signs of getting things underway. He yawns and leans back against the wall. “Reckon he’s spotted an escape route.”

“Nah,” says Matty, grin growing wide across his face, “he’s weighing up the prospects for a view from a room.”

A beat, and then he and Jimmy shout “Hashtag!” in unison.

Swanny cracks up. Broady turns, rolls his eyes, and throws a balled-up pair of socks at them. When they bounce off Swanny’s chin, Jimmy laughs so hard he doubles over and almost falls off the bench.

Swanny puts on his best wounded dignity face. “Why me? Why do I get your smelly socks?” (Jimmy notices he’s pretending the chin part didn’t happen. He doesn’t intend to let him forget.) “I’m just an innocent bystander to Matty and Jimmy’s cruel teasing.”

When Broady ignores him, turning back to the window, Swanny pitches his voice to carry across the room to their newly-minted captain, puts a plaintive tone in it. “Hey, Cooky— I mean, _Captain_ …” (Jimmy and Swanny’s new running gag, as of yesterday: addressing Ali as ‘Captain’ as loudly, frequently and publicly as they can.) “Broady’s being _mean_.”

Ali glances up distractedly, flashes a quick smile. “And you’re being an angel, I’m sure. Matty, you got a minute?”

Swanny vents an inarticulate noise of affront. “Did everyone hear that?” Matty gives him a consoling pat on the shoulder on his way to join Ali, but Swanny doesn’t let this distract him from the important business of flinging his arms around dramatically. “Falsely accused, I am. Convicted without trial!”

More socks fly at him, from several different directions. He ducks.

“So it’s true what they say.” Morgs pauses in lacing up his boots long enough to shake his head sadly. “Cooky’s changed since he became captain.”

“Yeah, it’s such a _shame_ to see what power does to a man,” says Jimmy, with an earnest sigh.

(If Ali hears, he doesn’t show it.)

(Not that he’s trying to get a reaction from him. Not like the others are.)

Swanny gathers up the socks, and fires them off at everyone in range: Morgs, Bressy, Jimmy.

Jimmy catches the original, rolled-up pair and – all in one smooth movement, like he’s fielding for a run-out – turns and throws them hard at the opening door, where by sheer, beautiful coincidence they catch the entering Steven Finn bang on the nose.

Jimmy whoops at his unexpected good fortune. He’s so busy high fiving Morgs and Swanny that he doesn’t catch Finny’s reaction, only sees Broady turning quickly from his vigil at the window. When Jimmy looks back to the door, Finny is straightening up with the socks in one hand. It’s a long way down to pick them up from that height, so maybe that’s why the human gazelle looks a bit miserable.

“These yours, Stu?” Finny says. He doesn’t wait for an answer, just chucks them back across the room and turns on his heel.

“Steve, wait – hang on—” Broady’s darting across the room and following him out, and everyone else goes from exchanging high fives to exchanging raised eyebrows.

Jimmy stifles a groan. If people don’t stop running out of the bloody room, the rest of them are going to be sitting here forever waiting for the team meeting to start. And the longer it doesn’t start, the longer it isn’t over yet.

Swanny puffs out a sigh. “Broady must’ve nicked the straightening irons again. It’s a sad day when teammates can’t respect each other’s beauty kits.” He raises his voice, sliding into an impression of Bumble. “And I think the question we’re all asking tonight is: Alastair Cook’s a smashing bloke, but is he the right captain to impose proper grooming discipline on this England side?”

Ali, to Graeme’s visible disappointment, doesn’t respond. (Twelve.) He’s staring after his two lankiest bowlers, hands on his hips and chewing his lower lip. Jimmy has no idea why Ali should be looking so worried – Broady’s prone to a strop, true, but Finny never holds a grudge for long – but decides to distract Swanny before he can push the issue.

(Also, before Jimmy gets drawn into staring at Ali for too long. Well, if he will bite his lip like that, what’s a man to do?)

“Broady’s socks are finding _all_ the biggest targets in the room today,” he says. “Finny’s nose, your chin…”

“Nah. The socks didn’t go anywhere _near_ my crotch.”

(Swanny beats at least two of the others to the punch with similar comments, but only just.)

Jimmy rolls his eyes. “Thanks, Swanny. And the rest of you, too, so keen to make sure we’re thinking about your cocks…”

It’s all too predictable, really, that his last few words should drop into complete and utter silence. Because, equally obviously, Ali’s now standing up at the far end of the room, finally ready to address the team.

Ali’s looking right at him, eyebrows raised. So’s everyone else, and Jimmy realises belatedly that the various wanderers have returned. Belly’s hair is dripping wet, like Trotty’s dunked him in a sink. (He hopes it was just a sink.) Broady and Finny, all smiles now, are squeezing into a space between Bairstow and Root that really isn’t big enough for their overabundance of limbs.

But Jimmy’s really only got eyes for Ali, who’s leaning against the table with his arms folded in a way that somehow manages to makes his training shirt look even tighter, impossible as that seems. The other man’s biting his lip again, but this time it’s pretty clear from the sparkle of amusement in his eyes that it’s because he’s trying not to laugh in front of Flower.

Jimmy flushes, clears his throat. “Sorry, Cooky. Uh, Captain.”

(The whole running Captain joke thing seemed _much_ funnier when him and Swanny were texting each other about it on the way to the airport yesterday.)

He clears his throat again. “Carry on.”

Ali nods, gravely, and Jimmy knows he’s being mocked. “Thanks, Jimmy. So, morning, everyone…”

Jimmy doesn’t hear much of what Ali’s saying; he’s too distracted by the arms, and his own embarrassment. Mostly the latter.

 _Well, you certainly got his attention that time_ , snarks the part of his brain that sounds not unlike Swanny. _Twelve, indeed_.

 _Sod off_ , Jimmy thinks. _Bad enough having one of you in the room, I don’t need another one in my head_.

He broods for a while on timing, and how tired he is, and various other excuses. When another burst of laughter pulls him back to attention, he’s not completely clear on how long he’s been failing to listen, but his thoughts have circled back round to Ali’s arms (the perfection thereof), and he’s feeling much better.

This is one plus to Ali being captain: there’s a whole new world of reasons to stare at him. Though probably Jimmy should be concentrating on what Ali’s saying, rather than the shape of his mouth. He laughs a lot, does Ali, and tends to pause with his lips parted when he’s searching for his next words.

(It’s not that Jimmy’s forgotten these things about him, exactly. But yesterday’s flight was the first time he’d seen Ali in almost two months. Turns out there’s a world of difference between imagining – okay, fantasising about – someone, and being in the same room as them. How he moves, how he sounds; how Jimmy’s own body and breath feel like they’re linked to the other man by slender, invisible strings, pulled taut by his every gesture.)

He really is very tired. This probably isn’t a good excuse.

 _It’s really not_ , says his inner Swanny. Jimmy ignores him. It.

“…everyone knows,” the actual Swanny is saying, “that the first rule of captaincy is give your bowlers exactly what they want. Especially if they’re spinners.”

General laughter. Jimmy watches Ali join in. An image flashes into his mind before he can stop it, of Ali giving him exactly what he wants: on his knees in front of him, putting that captain’s mouth to good use.

He can’t quite believe he actually just thought that line. He almost groans aloud at the porn-film cheesiness of his brain.

Several of the lads start talking over each other, and since there’s not likely to be anything he really needs to hear for the next few minutes, he gives in and indulges the idea.

He imagines the dressing-room deserted, just the two of them. He’s on the bench, Ali is down on one knee, helping him stretch out a muscle in his thigh or something. Somehow this requires Jimmy to be stripped to his underwear. (Fuck it, so’s Ali, because it’s his fantasy and he can do what he likes with it.) Ali’s fingers are poking and prodding and squeezing and stroking, and there’s heat building up and, soon, a tell-tale bulge in Jimmy’s pants. Jimmy sees Ali’s hands falter for a moment as he notices it, sees him wet his lips nervously, and swallow. It’s as much invitation as Jimmy needs, and he laces his fingers through Ali’s thick hair. (The man needs a haircut, but the mop certainly could have its uses.) The other man looks up, full lips parted in surprise, and obvious arousal. Jimmy frees himself from his underwear, guides Ali’s head down to where it needs to be. The captain is hesitant at first, resisting, but this just makes Jimmy harder, makes him apply more pressure, and then Ali’s lips are wrapped around his cock and he’s taking him into his warm, wet mouth like he’s making up for lost time—

More laughter around him, startling Jimmy out of the fantasy. Quickly, he scopes the room, checking to see whether anyone’s staring at him.

(That… went a bit further than he intended.)

He shifts position (carefully) to make sure his arm is covering his groin. Concentrates on _think unsexy thoughts_ , because it’s clear from the way the others are stirring that they’ll be heading out to finally get on with training soon, and right now there’s no way he can pad up (or possibly even get to his feet) without giving the game away.

Which is why lusting after his captain is a terrible, terrible idea, and has to stop.

Then he accidentally catches Ali’s gaze, feels his breath hitch in his throat, and knows it’s not going to stop any time soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The #viewofaroom hashtag is inspired by twitter exchanges between Broad, Prior and Anderson during the India tour (in which it was #viewfromaroom). #viewofacarpet comes from the same sources, but that's not relevant until chapter four...


	2. #viewofaroom: Jimmy’s hotel room, Ahmedabad

**#viewofaroom: Jimmy’s hotel room, Ahmedabad. Remains of room service dinner for three, trail of dirty laundry leading to pile beside wardrobe, bed doubling as a sofa for three replete cricketers**

Touring India is hard work. Toiling with the ball on flat pitches is only half of it; it’s also the attention they get off the field. The team’s abrupt elevation to celebrity status in this cricket-mad land is heady stuff, but exhausting. You can’t exactly have a quiet meal out when people are lined up three deep in the hotel lobby to photograph any cricketer who so much as pokes his nose out of the lift.

Spending all your spare time in your hotel room isn’t exactly a recipe for sanity, either. There’s been a lot of Xbox, but that only keeps you going for so long.

With Swanny having completed his first innings five-fer at the start of the day, Jimmy decided that tonight they should make an occasion of it. He ordered a romantic room service meal for him and Swanny (and Ali). Swanny had chicken tikka; he opted for spag bol. ( _It’s all about embracing the local culture_ , as Ali put it. Quite so.)

Now the three of them are sprawling on his hotel bed, Jimmy in the middle. They’re watching _On Her Majesty’s Secret Service_ , which Swanny insists is an unjustly overlooked classic Bond, but which mostly seems to involve too much unfunny slapstick and not enough Diana Rigg for Jimmy’s tastes.

Since the film isn’t holding his attention, he’s got sucked into playing a round of How Long Can You ‘Accidentally’ Touch Ali Without Looking Like A Complete Lech? The rules are as follows:

1) Some body part (e.g. arm, thigh, shoulder) must be touching the equivalent part of Captain Cook.

2) It has to look accidental/casual.

3) In the event that Ali breaks the contact by moving or stretching or whatever, it can’t be resumed for at least fifteen minutes. (Stretching is good. God, it’s good.)

4) If anyone calls him on it, deny all knowledge and then jump out of the nearest window.

(He finds the idea of rule 4) very funny. This is probably a testament to how bored he is.)

Tonight’s a good night, in that he managed to line himself up with Ali’s shoulder more or less as soon as they all sat down, and – entirely independently – Ali’s knee is now resting against his thigh.

(Fuck, this is sad. He needs to get out more.)

At a certain point, Jimmy realises that the weight of Ali against his side has been steadily increasing for some time. He sneaks a look and discovers why: Ali is nestled against him, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, fast asleep. He’s slid sideways and Jimmy’s right arm is pinned beneath him.

Jimmy’s heart gives a small, helpless thud. He tells it not to be so soppy, then nudges Swanny.

“What’s up?”

Jimmy holds a finger to his lips, whispers, “Cooky’s flaked out.”

Swanny takes a look, mouths, “Aww,” then grins and grabs his mobile, lines it up for a photo.

Alarmed at the thought of a picture of him and Ali snuggling hitting twitter, Jimmy puts out a hand to block the shot.

“Be nice, Graeme.”

“Nice has never stopped us before.” Off his look, though, Swanny shrugs, and puts the phone down. “Well, we’d better wake him up, so he can go and sleep in his own bed.”

Jimmy turns back. He reaches for Ali’s arm, then thinks better of it when an image flashes through his mind of the other man waking up to find Jimmy’s hand wrapped around his bicep. He goes instead for Ali’s shoulder – shifting, first, as best he can, to get his own arm, the one Ali’s sleeping on, into a position to support the other man and stop him rolling off the bed if he wakes up with a start. A light tap on Ali’s shoulder doesn’t do the job, so he has to take a firmer grip, and shake.

Ali’s eyelids flutter open. The smile that blossoms on his face, once the sleep-blurred dark eyes have focused, causes further soppiness in Jimmy’s chest. (He sighs at himself.) The urge to touch Ali’s face, to draw him closer and kiss him, is dizzying.

“Hey, Cooky,” he says, and he can hear the softness in his voice. It’s an effort to make his next words rougher, more off-hand. “You nodded off, mate. Think it’s time to call it a night.”

“Yeah.” Ali rubs his face and gives a huge yawn; stretches out his neck. He sits up; Jimmy’s arm, the one Ali’s been sleeping on, feels suddenly cold, exposed to the air conditioning. He realises he’s still holding the other man’s shoulder, and lets his hand drop, quickly.

Once Ali’s tottered out of the room – after a false start when a sleepy stumble plunges him back onto the bed, and into Jimmy’s hastily raised arms – Swanny waits all of ten seconds before breaking the (relative) silence.

“So. You’re still pining after Cooky, then?”

Jimmy keeps his gaze on the screen, reaches for a handful of crisps from the bag between them, to buy himself time. “And you’ve still got a seriously overactive imagination.”

Swanny laughs. “Jimmy. Mate. No-one takes that long to wake up someone who’s asleep and drooling on them unless _either_ ” (he emphasises the word with a wave of his arm) “they’re pondering the shape of the moustache they’re about to draw, _or_ … something as simple as touching their shoulder means way more than it should.”

(Sometimes Graeme can be annoyingly clever.)

Jimmy crunches down the last of his crisps, still staring at the screen, feeling cornered. “He wasn’t drooling.”

Swanny gives a whoop of triumph. “Avoiding the question!” He points with both hands towards Jimmy, jabs the air over and over again with his index fingers. “I rest my case.”

Jimmy rolls his eyes, slides himself forward, and flops down flat on his back. “Even by your standards, those are some seriously weird dance moves.” He pulls a pillow over his face.

Which is a miscalculation, since it smells of Ali.

He holds it there and digs his fingers into it, though, as Swanny goes on.

“Come on, Jimmy, how long have we been friends?”

Jimmy resists the urge to bite the pillow. It’s not its fault, after all, that he gave himself away again so stupidly. (He’s been taking risks, he knows that. Since the summer, since all the time in between of not seeing Ali, it’s been hard not to.)

“The real question,” he says, “is how long we’re going to stay friends, if you won’t give up on this.”

“What? Come on, Jimmy,” Swanny says again, and this time he sounds just a tiny bit hurt. “What have I ever done to make you think you can’t talk to me about this? Me, of all people?”

Jimmy lifts the pillow a little so Swanny can feel the full force of his sarcastic glare. “Yeah, because it’s not like you ever use other people’s insecurities to mock them, or anything.”

“Unfair! Bressy can take it. And Finny. And it’s half your doing, anyway.”

Jimmy drops the pillow back, to muffle his response. “Well, then maybe I’m not a very nice person.”

The silence that follows isn’t very nice, either.

It’s about a minute, tops, before Jimmy starts feeling guilty. (He keeps expecting Swanny to get up and walk out, but he doesn’t. Can’t decide whether or not he wants him to.)

“I’m sorry,” he says at last, although he keeps the pillow where it is. “That was uncalled for.”

“Me too,” says Graeme. “I know I shouldn’t push. But I just… I hate the thought of you brooding over this on your own. I mean, I know you _like_ brooding, I know you’ve been the winner of the Brooding Championship Trophy for the past five years’ straight, with a special citation from the judges for the sheer _depth_ of your commitment to your art—”

Jimmy doesn’t have to be able see Swanny’s face at that moment; he can more or less hear the effort he makes to rein himself in.

“…But something like this is a special case, right?”

There was a day off, during the tour of New Zealand back in 2008, when Jimmy went on a hike along the coast with some of the other guys. The cliffs turned out to be a bit higher than they’d realised, and the path a bit precarious. He remembers standing with his toes hanging an inch over the edge: the view down over the distant sea, the salt-tinged wind that snatched at his hair and his jacket, and the bizarre urge to jump that came from nowhere. Not that he wanted to hit the ground; he just wanted to know what falling felt like, that first moment after the choice is made.

That feeling’s back, or something like it. There’s no good reason for him to make the leap, and plenty of reasons not to, but there’s a churning in his belly that’s somewhere between terror and excitement, and he wonders what it’d be like.

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath; and jumps.

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

Jimmy grits his teeth. If Swanny thinks he’s going to spill his guts any further, he’s going to be very disappointed. “Yes.”

“So, like… all this time? You’ve fancied him?”

Jimmy raises the pillow, gives Swanny a look that means _don’t make me fucking spell it out_. It’s much like the look that means _it’s too bloody early in the morning_ and the one for _it’s late and I’m tired_ , which in turn are both not unlike _that wasn’t funny the first eight times_ and _not if I was the last cricketer on earth and Nick Knight the only pundit_ (you’d think it’s a bit too specialised, that last one, but he’s actually used it more than once). The two of them have a well-established shorthand by now. Swanny’s needy, Jimmy’s not the most patient man on earth; they’d have fallen out a lot more often without a quick way to shut Swanny up.

“And Cooky… he doesn’t know, does he?”

“No.” Jimmy sits up, alarmed. “ _No_. And he can’t know.”

“But – what if he feels the same way? I bet he feels the same w—”

“No, listen to me. Even if he does, which he doesn’t” (he’s aware that makes no sense) “we’re teammates, and— and we’re both married. Okay? You can never tell anyone about this, including him. _Especially_ him. Promise me.”

Swanny raises placating hands against whatever he sees in Jimmy’s expression. “Sure, sure. I just…” He shakes his head, a fond smile taking over his face. “Aw, Jimmy. That’s…”

Jimmy finds himself pulled into a warm hug. He lets it go on for at _least_ five seconds before he pushes Swanny away, and gruffly reminds him that they’re missing the film he chose. (Diana Rigg’s back.)

Somewhat later, Swanny says, a tone that’s the very image of casualness (and so isn’t at all), “Have you ever fancied me?”

Jimmy has been expecting this, waiting for it. He snorts. “You’re one of the straightest guys I know.”

Swanny makes the theatrically-offended noise he normally reserves for times when he’s been told to stop messing about in a team meeting. “What does _that_ mean?” he says. “Am I not flirty enough? Because I can flirt more.”

Jimmy suppresses a grin. “No, we’re fine on that score. I mean…” He searches for the right way to put it. “So, right, whenever we go somewhere, you check out the women around us. Just women, never men. Me – I notice both. And when you do, you get used to looking for what other guys are looking at.”

(This may be the most he’s ever said on the subject in one go, even compared with the days when he was actually regularly sleeping with guys. It doesn’t feel as awkward as he thought it would.)

“Huh. Okay.” Swanny’s quiet for a minute. Then, “Anyway, that’s not an answer.”

Jimmy does grin, this time. “I know.” He lets Swanny stew for a few moments, then says, “Don’t worry. I love your stupid face, but not like that.”

“I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed,” says Swanny. “On the one hand, I was all set to let you down gently. I’ve been writing a speech in my head for the past ten minutes. Beautiful work, too, and all for nothing.” He picks up the packet of crisps, lifts it above his head and pours the remaining contents directly into his mouth. “On the other hand,” he says, through a mouthful of crisps, chewing exaggeratedly, “I can’t believe you think Alastair Cook’s hotter than me.”

They both dissolve into laughter, and that’s the last time he mentions Ali for the rest of the night.

And Jimmy surprises himself, later, when he realises that it feels like a weight off, to have told him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on chapter 2:
> 
> 1) Being a man of taste and judgement, fic!Jimmy shares my views on OHMSS. ;)
> 
> 2) The details about the trio's dining habits come from a piece by Jimmy in the _Daily Fail_ (tumblr link to the relevant bit [here](http://leatheronwillow.tumblr.com/post/69791269750/as-his-tour-husband-i-decided-we-should-celebrate)), and from comments from Swanny on TMS earlier this year (in which he said that the three of them ate together every night, not just him & Jimmy).
> 
> 3) The passing reference to Nick Knight was written before both [this photo](http://leatheronwillow.tumblr.com/post/98235314835/frontrowbrat-omgkiesy-jimmy-joined-us-to), and plumjaffas'/piranhafish's fic in response to it, which has now sold me on Nick/Jimmy. But I left the line as it was because I found it funny that I'd been mocking a pairing only for it to show up about two days later. So feel free to read that bit as Jimmy being in denial. ;D


	3. #viewofaroom: Swanny’s hotel room, Ahmedabad

**#viewofaroom: Swanny’s hotel room, Ahmedabad. Tidier than Jimmy’s, even two days further into the Test, but less fragrant**

Alastair is growing to love the evenings with Jimmy and Swanny on this tour. Okay, so they’re cooped up in hotel rooms. And okay, so they eat the same meal every night, because Swanny’s nothing if not superstitious; once a routine’s established, he insists on repeating it, so they don’t jinx anything.

But Alastair’s not complaining. Because the more evenings they spend in each room, the more the rooms become like an extension of the pair and their friendship: warm, welcoming, a bit silly. Especially with the first Test not going well, evenings like this are a much-needed haven from the demands of captaincy. And who knows, maybe the never-ending tikka and spaghetti thing is starting to pay off, because he’s carried his bat this evening on a good total.

He just likes being in their orbit; it doesn’t really matter where.

Even when they’re bickering. Which is quite often.

“For the last time, Graeme, we’re not watching _Star Wars_.”

“But you chose the film last night! It’s my turn!”

“And you chose the night before last. So I’m pretty sure that makes it Cooky’s turn.”

Alastair laughs. “Don’t drag me into your domestic,” he says, getting up to pick out another drink (soft) from the mini-fridge across the room.

He takes his tactful time, and when eventually he’s sitting back down on the bed, the pair have reached an agreement. Or rather, Jimmy’s given in – apparently on the promise that he gets to choose the next three nights’ films – and Swanny’s putting the DVD in with such an air of joy that even Jimmy cracks a smile, at least while Swanny’s back’s turned.

Swanny bounces back on the bed and pulls Jimmy in to him for a hug. “You’ll love it, I promise.”

Jimmy mutters something from the depths of Swanny’s embrace about how he’s already seen it, but when he extricates himself and they sit back against the headboard, his arm is around Swanny, and Swanny gives his belly an affectionate pat. Alastair can’t help but smile, and he’s barely jealous at all, really, although he draws the line at watching the poking and giggling and whispering that follows, and tunes them out to concentrate on the film.

He does that so successfully that he’s taken by surprise, shortly after, when he’s abruptly grabbed into a one-armed sort of hug thing by Jimmy.

“It’s been brought to my attention,” the other man says, “that you need a bit of affection, too, Mr one-hundred and sixty-eight not out. So here it is. Well done, Cooky, you were awesome today.”

“Er, thanks.” Alastair does his best to keep breathing past the arm hooked around his neck.

Jimmy gets the message and loosens his hold, but his arm stays draped across Alastair’s shoulders. _Draped_ makes it sound more casual than it is; Alastair’s head is still more or less being held at a right angle to the rest of his body. If he wants to keep this up – and he does, of course he does, even in the room he guesses they’re secretly sharing, on the bed he’d prefer not to speculate about – he’s going to have to move closer.

He glances over at Swanny. After several heartbeats of indecision, he decides that shuffling up to Jimmy is probably fine, and it’s definitely the most comfortable way to sit, under the circumstances.

When he’s finally done _that_ , there’s nowhere obvious to put his left arm – not enough space between them – so he lets it rest on his leg. His hand strays just a little across the borderlands, towards Jimmy’s denim-clad thigh. He tries to look over at Swanny to check he isn’t too blatantly violating any boundaries here, but all he manages to do is meet Jimmy’s sidelong gaze, drop it quickly, feel his face heat, and then spend the next couple of moments trying very hard not to jerk his hand away and thus make it obvious what he was doing.

He’s overthinking this, isn’t he? Yes, yes he is. _Sit still, idiot_ , he tells himself.

Jimmy shifts slightly. Now their thighs are touching.

Alastair tries, unsuccessfully, not to think of the bare skin under the jeans, or the pulse beating gently in the wrist balanced on his shoulder.

After a while, he lets himself lean, just a little, into Jimmy. He’ll take what he can get.

 _I’m shameless_ , he thinks. _This is Swanny’s bed, and Swanny’s boyfriend._

Swanny’s phone buzzes, almost like it’s heard him; Alastair can’t quite stop himself flinching at the noise. _Sign of a guilty conscience._

Swanny reaches for the phone, glances at the screen and says, “Oh, I have to take this.” He starts extracting himself from the bed.

Jimmy frowns. “Sounded like it was just a text.”

“Er, yeah, but I need to call back. It’s the missus.” Swanny rounds the bed and heads for the door. “I won’t be long.”

Alastair feels Jimmy stiffen, just a little; at the mention of Swanny’s wife, he supposes. “Want us to pause the film?” Jimmy’s voice, too, is strained.

Swanny waves a hand carelessly. “No, don’t worry about it. I’ve seen it a million times.”

“A million—” Jimmy leans forwards to call after Swanny’s retreating back. “So why were you so desperate to make us watch it, then?”

It’s too late; the door’s already closing. Jimmy mutters under his breath.

Swanny’s gone. And Jimmy’s arm stays where it is.

Which is fine. It’s _fine_. It’s not unknown for various of their teammates to sit with companionable arms around each other. Especially Broady and Finny, although Alastair’s 99% sure they’re a couple, so maybe they’re not the best reassuring counter-example.

The arm is a comfortable weight across his shoulders, fingertips light against t-shirt sleeve and skin, which somehow feels more sensitive now that he’s alone with Jimmy.

He once caught part of a discussion on Radio 4 about a children’s book set in a world where all men could hear each other’s thoughts. Every little thing they were thinking got broadcast out loud, uncontrollably. Now and then Alastair kind of wonders what it’d be like if that were real. Maybe Jimmy can hear everything he’s thinking right now. Oh god, what if Jimmy can hear everything he’s thinking right now? No, it can’t be true, because then _he_ ’d be able to hear what Jimmy’s thinking, and he can’t. Then again, maybe he can’t hear what Jimmy’s thinking because Jimmy doesn’t constantly chatter away to himself inside his head like a complete lemon.

Alastair sits very still and tries not to think anything.

Which is easier resolved than done. Especially when the action of the film moves to some sort of space bar, a band of aliens strike up a jazzy tune, and Jimmy starts tapping his fingers against Alastair’s shoulder in time with the music.

“Thought you didn’t like this film,” he says, mostly to take his mind off things.

“I don’t.”

“Your hand seems to have a different opinion.”

Jimmy’s fingertips go still, briefly; then the tapping starts again, more vigorous this time. Alastair could just be imagining this, too, but it feels like his hand has slid a touch lower, now; beyond his sleeve and fully into the realm of bare skin.

Jimmy looks at him, quirks an eyebrow. “Mind of its own, clearly,” he says.

Alastair’s the first to look away. His stomach is a pit of nerves; but his skin sings everywhere Jimmy’s touching it, even through layers of fabric.

If Jimmy wants to pretend-flirt, fine; he can do that. He’ll take what he can get. Sad, but true.

Alastair’s left hand slips, not very accidentally at all, a little further across the divide between their thighs. “A hand you can’t control,” he says. “That must be difficult.”

The tapping at his shoulder falters, then resumes.

Alastair feels rather pleased with himself. “For bowling, I mean.”

“It is,” says Jimmy. “Whenever I send down a wide? Rebel hand.”

“And when you take a wicket?”

“Oh, that’s all me. But it’s a constant struggle.”

Alastair nods. “I can imagine.”

On screen, there’s a shootout of some sort; in truth, he isn’t really watching. Point is, the jazzy music stops, taking the tapping with it.

“Off the field, too,” Jimmy says after a moment. “Sometimes it gets the urge to ping bits of food at Swanny when he won’t shut up. Like, with a spoon as a catapult. But for that it’d need to team up with my other hand, really.”

“Which is too well-behaved?”

“Exactly.” A finger from the uncontrollable hand starts tracing spirals and figures-of-eight on Alastair’s upper arm. His breath comes short; everything in him is prickling, or tingling, or something in between that he doesn’t have a word for. “And then,” the other man says, at length, “there’s right now…”

The trail off is deliberate, Alastair’s sure; a space left for him to step into, if he wants. And he can’t not. He swallows. It’s just pretend-flirting; it’s fine.

He’s not sure he still believes that. Wonders, again, what would happen if Jimmy could hear his thoughts.

“Right now?”

 _Swanny_ , he thinks, _please come back soon. Save me from myself._

“Right now,” says Jimmy, “it’s wondering how ticklish you are.”

It takes Alastair a moment to catch up; this isn’t what he expected to hear, or quite what he wanted, but on balance it’s better, right? Safer. “I, uh…” He reels in the part of himself that’s disappointed, and has no right to be disappointed. “I’m not,” he says. “I’m not ticklish.”

Jimmy’s grinning. “Bet you are.”

“I’m not!” He is. Alastair raises his arms to defend himself, half-turns so he can see the rebel hand more clearly.

And so, naturally, the hand that starts the attack isn’t that one at all.

A few seconds later, he’s lying on his side: curled up and laughing, trying convulsively – and mostly fruitlessly – to get out of the way of Jimmy’s hands, and gasping out, “You lied! You completely lied!”

“Last-minute alliance. Rebel hand persuaded the other one it’d be fun. And what d’you know, it is.”

Alastair tries to fend Jimmy off but mostly ends up flailing. “I’ll never— trust you— again—”

Jimmy pins one of Alastair’s arms under his knee, catches the other by the wrist. The rebel hand now has free rein.

But it hesitates.

And there’s a long moment of Alastair looking up at Jimmy, and Jimmy looking down at Alastair. The laughter slowly fades from Jimmy’s face, taking with it most of the lines around his eyes, smoothing his forehead. The curve of his jaw is sprinkled with stubble that’s paler than the rest of his hair and there’s a delicate cleft in his chin that Alastair isn’t sure he ever properly noticed before. Jimmy’s eyes, now, are thoughtful; and his hand lies quiescent on Alastair’s chest, its only movement caused by the unsteady rise and fall of Alastair’s breathing.

This has gone beyond play. He needs to stop this.

Luckily, rescue’s at hand. Of a sort.

The door opens with a loud clatter, a thud, and the sound of Swanny swearing.

Alastair gives an involuntary – and rather undignified – squeak of alarm, struggles to free himself. Jimmy releases him, hauls him upright, and the pair of them are sitting back against the headboard before Swanny even makes it properly into the room.

Alastair’s heart is pounding; he’s trying to sort through what just happened, and reassure himself that nothing would have happened. He _would_ have stopped it.

Jimmy, though, looks… disapproving. Which strikes Alastair as odd. Surely if anyone in the room has a right to disapprove just now, it’s Swanny?

“You all right?” Jimmy calls, without looking away from the screen. He doesn’t sound terribly concerned.

“Fine, fine.” Swanny wanders into view, rubbing his knee. “Just stumbled a bit on my way in.”

“You poor thing,” says Jimmy.

His tone is so deadpan that Alastair can’t help but look at him, bemused. He glances away again just in time to catch the end of Swanny gesturing towards them both, and rolling his eyes at Jimmy.

Which, he decides, is his cue to leave. And to spend the rest of the night hiding and feeling guilty in his own hotel room.

\--

As soon as Ali’s gone, Jimmy glares at Swanny. “You are the least subtle person I’ve ever met.”

Swanny looks serene as he plonks himself back down on the bed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You don’t…? Leaving me alone with him!” Jimmy puts on a high-pitched voice. “ _Ooh, I’ve got to take this, it’s the missus_.”

“So?”

“So bollocks, Swanny. I saw the screen, and if your wife talks to you like that, you don’t just need a phonecall, you need marriage counselling.”

“Okay, okay. There was an important Yorkshire-related crisis going on down the corridor. All solved now, so I came back.”

“Hmm.”

“Anyway, you liked being left alone. I can tell. That’s a distinctly chirpy frown.”

Jimmy pushes away the memory of Ali’s hand on his thigh, the memory of his tone when he said _That must be difficult_ , the memory of how his skin shivered under his fingers, the memory of him squirming beneath him, the memory of his expression when—

He draws his knees up to his chin. “Shut up.”

“Hey, don’t worry, I’m not after the gory details.”

“There _are_ no details, gory or otherwise. Don’t do that again, okay?”

Swanny shrugs with a faint smile, learns forward to pick up the DVD remote. “So,” he says, “mind if I skip it back to the part where I left?”

Jimmy hits him with a pillow.


	4. #viewofacarpet: Swanny’s hotel room, Nagpur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously on 'Five Rooms...':
> 
> Jimmy likes Alastair. Jimmy's confessed his crush to Swanny, but he's sworn Swanny to secrecy because he thinks Ali's not interested. (Also b/c angst.) Swanny's agreed to the secrecy part, but he never promised not to meddle in other ways.
> 
> Alastair likes Jimmy. But he thinks Jimmy and Swanny are a couple so he feels v guilty and conflicted about this. Aaaaand now...

.

_Tonight_  
_We never_  
_Never_  
_Should’ve played make-believe_

\--Tomahawk, ‘South Paw’ ([music video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K1hM9uySE5E))

.

**#viewofacarpet: Swanny’s hotel room, Nagpur. Brown-on-brown stripes, miscellaneous stains, threadbare patch by the door.**

The room has mostly stopped spinning. It’s progress, of a sort.

Alastair shifts slightly, and feels the rough pile of the carpet prickling against the bare skin of his arms; it brushes his cheek, not softly, as he turns his head. The carpet smells of dust and old cigarette smoke, and he absently traces the zig-zag lines in it, dark brown alternating with paler, while he thinks about the steps that have led to him lying on the floor of Swanny’s hotel room, hiding from a rampaging horde of Yorkshiremen. Or, at least, from the members of the White Rose brigade currently in the England team.

Which is quite a few, it turns out. He knew that _intellectually_ , before, he just didn’t fully appreciate it, until tonight. Until Joe Root and his entourage got kind of… provoked.

Alastair sighs. _I’m just not a very responsible person,_ he thinks.

“What?” comes a voice from next to him, the reason he’s turned his head to the left (away) rather than the right (towards), and he suspects he’s said that last part out loud. Hopes, fervently, that that’s _all_ he’s said.

“Never mind,” he mutters.

“Bollocks, anyway,” says Jimmy. “It’s my fault you’re here. I didn’t leave you much choice, did I?”

“No.” Alastair lets his head loll over to the right and sort of more or less fights off a rueful smile. “No, you didn’t.”

Jimmy, like him, is lying on his back; his gaze is intent, even if his tone is light. Rather than get lost in those hazel eyes, Alastair thinks back to how this all started. Or his part in it, anyway.

He entered the story earlier this evening when he wandered, beer in hand, into the private dining room the hotel had set aside for the team on their last night in India. With the fourth Test over, they’d been celebrating their series win together. Then the party had gradually become parties, had moved on to individual hotel rooms, the pool, and so on. He’d drifted between the other rooms, enjoying the enjoyment of his teammates, before, at length, deciding he wanted a little time alone.

On his return to it, the dining room was a multi-coloured sea of empty bottles and dirty plates. But it wasn’t, as he’d hoped, deserted.

Better than that, actually.

The lean figure of Jimmy was bending over the table, pen in one hand and a short wooden post – a stump from the final day’s play, Alastair realised – in the other. Jimmy was facing away from him and writing with intense concentration on a tiny square of what looked like a napkin. He wore a tight-fitting t-shirt, pale blue, and a pair of grey trousers in some sort of loose, drapey fabric that clung to the curve of his backside in a way Alastair couldn’t help but stare at.

And he felt – didn’t he? – the tiniest little thread of happiness to see that the other man was alone.

As the moment stretched and it became clear he hadn’t been noticed, though, it seemed polite to clear his throat.

Jimmy started, and turned, thrusting the stump behind his back. “Er. Hi.”

“Hello,” said Alastair mildly. He took a swig from his beer bottle. “What are you up to?”

Jimmy looked shifty. “Nothing…”

Alastair just looked at him, enjoying having the upper hand for once. Jimmy crumbled surprisingly quickly.

“It’s… daft. Actually.” He swallowed, and when Alastair still didn’t say anything, he went on, “Writing a ransom note?” The tone of his voice made it sound like a question.

“…I see.”

“Long story.” Jimmy looked down at his napkin, back up. “I should—”

Alastair grinned, leaned back against the wall. “Don’t let me keep you.”

At which point Swanny burst in through the door at the other end of the room.

“Quick! He’s heading this way with Bressy and Jonny. We’ll have the whole Yorkshire mafia after us in—” He broke off when he spotted Alastair. “Hi, Cooky!” He waved, cheerily. “Don’t mind us, we’re just kidnapping Joe’s souvenir stump.”

Jimmy facepalmed. “Swanny…”

Graeme ignored that. “Come on, come on – we need to get the photo done.”

Alastair had some more beer, and decided not to comment.

There followed a bit of squabbling over angles and poses – they eventually settled on Jimmy pretending he was about to break the stump over his knee – and then Swanny texted it to Joe. After that, the other two peer-pressured Alastair into downing the rest of his beer in one – it felt deeply unwise, and also fun, like a lot about hanging out with Jimmy and Swanny – and then they all hurried out of the dining room.

“Couldn’t you have just texted a ransom note as well?” Alastair said a few moments later, as Jimmy jabbed impatiently at the button to call the lift.

Jimmy shrugged, in that way he has, the one that starts with his shoulders and then co-opts his head and ends with a sniff-inhale. “I’m old school,” he said.

The lift arrived, and Jimmy darted inside. “I’ll hide it in my room.”

“No, not yours.” Swanny shoved his arm in the path of the doors to stop them closing. “That’s the first place they’ll look for you. Go to mine.” Alastair vaguely noticed Swanny giving him a sidelong look. “Both of you. Lie low until I text you. Right?”

“Right. And you?”

Swanny took a deep breath, drawing himself up with mock solemnity like a soldier accepting a suicide mission. “I’ll draw them off.”

Jimmy saluted him. A last exchange of grins, and Swanny was running back in the direction of the pool.

“Wait,” said Alastair, “don’t you need his keycard?”

Jimmy patted his pocket. “Got one.”

And Alastair thought: _Of course he does. Of course Swanny and Jimmy have keys to each other’s hotel rooms._

Aloud, he said, as the doors started to close, “Well, have fun. And please don’t destroy anything.”

Turning to go, he felt a hand grab his upper arm, and then Jimmy was yanking him through the closing doors with such force that they both ended up careening into the mirror at the far side of the lift compartment. They’d both had quite a bit to drink, after all; co-ordination wasn’t a strong point. It was a wonder they didn’t end up impaling themselves on the stolen stump, really.

“Where do you think you’re going?” said Jimmy. He hadn’t let go of Alastair’s arm.

Alastair steadied himself, wishing he’d just left the beer rather than necking it. “Back to the lounge to see if anyone’s doing anything less riotous?” His own turn to sound like he was asking rather than answering a question.

“Wrong answer.” The doors sealed them in. “You’re coming with me.”

He couldn’t quite read Jimmy’s expression, didn’t want to think about his own.

“No chance,” he said, as the lift shuddered into life. “I’m not getting between you and a bunch of enraged Yorkshiremen. You’re the one who _stole_ the thing!”

Jimmy’s answering smile was positively devilish. “Oh no, Cooky,” he said. “You’re a witness. Much too risky to leave you wandering loose about the hotel.”

Alastair caught his breath. He tried, really very hard, to think responsible, captain-type thoughts. But Jimmy was standing awfully close, his hand was still wrapped snugly around Alastair’s arm, and there’d been too much beer and too much victory and it was all much too heady.

Without much conviction, because in truth he didn’t actually want to escape, he half-tried to detach himself from the other man, and said, “Promise I won’t talk.”

Jimmy tightened his hold, as Alastair had hoped he would. Moved in closer, also as he’d hoped.

“You say that now.” Jimmy gave a low chuckle. “But one flash of that cheeky smile of Joe’s and you’ll tell them everything.”

For a long moment Alastair just gaped at him. “I… _what_?” he said at last, through spluttered laughter. “Really? _Joe_?”

Jimmy flushed a bit, looked away. “That’s how he gets you,” he said. The lift was slowing. “Looking all innocent.”

The lift stopped with a _ping_. Jimmy stuck his head out through the doors, scoping out the corridor. As he drew back inside, bracing the stump against the lift doors to hold them open, Alastair was still laughing, softly.

“I feel,” he said, “like I’m learning a lot more about how this whole thing started than I really wanted to.”

Jimmy sighed. “You can mock me to your heart’s content in a minute. But giggling and stealth don’t mix, so—”

“These aren’t giggles, they’re chuckles. There’s an important manly difference.”

“I don’t care if you’re _tittering_ , as long as you keep it down while we’re sneaking into Swanny’s room.” He changed his grip on Alastair’s arm, slightly, but didn’t let go. “Shall we?”

Alastair caught, and held, his gaze. The buzz of the beer made him bold. “I think technically I’m your hostage at the moment, so… whatever you say.”

“The stump’s the hostage, not you,” Jimmy said. He paused, then added, with a raised eyebrow, “Unless you want to be.”

And Alastair absolutely definitely didn’t feel some answering heat in his face, and lower down: at his own shameless daring, at Jimmy’s arch playfulness, at the other thing he thought he glimpsed beneath the playfulness.

There was no chance to respond, though, until Jimmy had hustled Alastair down the red-and-brown corridor and into the darkness of Swanny’s room. Even once the door had closed behind them, Jimmy kept hold of Alastair’s arm – though lightly, absently, like he’d forgotten he was doing it, or it’d become a habit – while he fumbled to fit the keycard into the slot needed to activate the lights.

And Alastair? Alastair simply waited: docile, willing, letting himself be swept along in whatever this game was.

The keycard clicked into place, and every single light imaginable burst into life all at once. Jimmy winced, and played with the switches until just the bedside lamps were on. Then he finally released Alastair, and ambled further into the room, depositing the stump on the desk, next to a laptop and a neat pile of papers and some half-written postcards.

“Right,” he said, “what’s Swanny got left in his mini-bar?” He leaned down to open it up, rummaged for a moment. “Beer or… vodka?” he asked, without looking round.

Alastair dragged his gaze away from Jimmy’s arse, tried to remember how many drinks he’d had this evening. He couldn’t, which seemed a good signal to stop. “Neither?”

“Wrong answer again. You’re not doing very well tonight.” There was a clinking noise as Jimmy straightened up. “Beer it is.” He opened two bottles with a quick flick of a keyring, brought one over.

Alastair realised he’d been been rubbing his arm, that there were marks where Jimmy’s fingertips had been. He accepted the bottle, took a sip to get back into the swing of things, and said, “So if I’m not a hostage, what am I?”

Jimmy’s gaze, he noticed, had fastened on his arm, but he looked away quickly when Alastair spoke, raised his own bottle.

“Good question,” he said, after a long gulp of beer. “Protection against the wrath of the Yorkies? Or maybe you’re a gangster’s moll, forced to go on the run with me.”

Alastair snorted, although he wasn’t entirely sure what a gangster’s moll was. “And why is the stump a hostage, anyway?”

Jimmy rubbed the back of his neck. “Surprised you haven’t heard. Cheeky git Joe stole my towel and all my clothes while I was in the shower, after the pool.”

“Ah.” Alastair felt his face grow warm, again. He paused, took a few more mouthfuls of beer, to pretend there was no rush on hearing more. “So you had to…?”

“Oh, that part was fine. There were loads of spare towels down the other end of the pool, so I grabbed one of those and wore it back to my room.”

Jimmy shrugged, like semi-public nakedness – and public semi-nakedness – was no big deal.

Alastair tried to drink a bit too much beer in one go, and almost choked.

“No, what bothers me,” Jimmy went on, “is the fact that Joe’s got one of my favourite shirts. Bres told me the lad likes to cut holes in other people’s socks, so... Decided I needed to strike back.”

Joe, Alastair was realising, was good at this; he’d taken his time, calculated the best way to get at Jimmy.

“You know,” Alastair said, and couldn’t stop himself from smiling, “there’s an easy way out of this. I could just put my captain hat on and tell you all to behave and give back the stuff you’ve stolen from each other.”

Jimmy gave him a long, assessing look. “But you don’t want to.” It wasn’t a question.

Alastair’s mouth went dry. He went to take another swig of beer, realised the bottle was almost empty.

 _That went fast_ , he thought.

Jimmy was raiding the fridge for another almost before Alastair had finished the thought, and he wondered again whether he just wasn’t very good at telling when he’d said something aloud or not. The prospect was… worrying, to say the least.

When Jimmy handed the fresh beer over, their fingers touched around the bottle, because of course they did.

“No,” Alastair said, looking away first. “I don’t want to.” He wasn’t completely sure which part he was responding to.

Jimmy, at least, took it as agreement with him. “We’re in this together now,” he said, grinning broadly. He sat, heavily, on the bed. “Partners in crime.”

Alastair frowned. “Hang on. Surely: criminal” –he waved a hand at Jimmy; the gesture went a bit wonky— “and witness.” He pointed to himself. “I’m an innocent forced to go on the run with you, remember?”

Jimmy sniffed, leaning back on his elbows. “A gangster’s moll is never innocent. Not for long, anyway. Pretty sure I’m corrupting you as we speak. Plying you with beer and that.”

 _Too right_ , thought Alastair. _Kidnapping me, plying me with beer, lying back invitingly on the bed…_

He was saved the inevitable dithering about how and where to sit – and whether to swear off the beer for the rest of the night, or possibly forever just to be on the safe side – by an eruption of noise into the corridor. By the time they realised the shouting and banging was centred on another room (presumably Jimmy’s), not Swanny’s, they’d both already put the bed between the door and themselves: Jimmy diving across it, remarkably without spilling any of his beer, and Alastair dashing around it, once he’d grabbed the stump. Jimmy swung his legs round and slid to the floor with a bump and a laugh; Alastair tried to sit down, but misjudged the floor somehow. He found himself collapsed on his side, giggling – it definitely was giggling this time – and closing his eyes against the way the world suddenly seemed to be spinning. Jimmy snatched the beer from him, quickly. Alastair had a go at sitting up. The world lurched, and he thought better of it.

After a little while, Jimmy set both beers aside and lay down next to him.

And so now here they are. The commotion outside has died down – their pursuers have clearly decided to try elsewhere – but neither of them is moving. Alastair’s wondering how he and Jimmy manage to get themselves into situations like this, and how exactly they think the bed is going to protect them, as and when the Yorkshire horde realises where they really are.

In the meantime, well. He’s quite drunk – quite a _lot_ drunk – and lying flat on his back about six inches from Jimmy. Next to Swanny’s bed. Jimmy’s _boyfriend_ ’s bed.

There’s a low buzzing noise in his ears. Alastair stares up at the ceiling and considers asking the cricket gods for help: for some self-restraint, maybe; failing that, the ability to learn from his mistakes, like for example the mistake of ending up drunk and in confined spaces on his own with Jimmy, which seems to happen a lot. But Tendulkar’s probably not in the mood to hear his prayers, what with that whole thing where Jimmy got him out for two in the first innings of the Test they’ve just finished.

It would be wonderful, simply _wonderful_ , if he could shut his brain up.

“Jimmy?”

“Mmm?”

“What _is_ a gangster’s moll, anyway?”

Jimmy laughs. “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask me that. Uh. It means… sort of… girlfriend.”

Alastair pretends to be insulted. “ _Girl_ friend?” Okay, maybe he is a bit insulted.

“No! Not… like that.” Jimmy’s quiet for a moment, then says, “It’s just your role. In this… game. Non-gender-specific moll.” He covers his eyes. “It was meant to be a joke, I’m sorry.”

“Non-gender-specific moll.” Alastair’s affront collapses into giggles. Chuckles. Whatever. “That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. Well, this evening, anyway.”

Jimmy joins in, and for a while they’re both helpless.

Their laughter subsides, and there’s silence again with both of them smiling into it. At each other. The buzzing in Alastair’s ears seems to get louder. Then Jimmy, suddenly, groans.

“Oh god, I can’t,” he says. “I just…”

Concerned, Alastair rolls onto his side, reaching and then not reaching for him. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know. Probably not.” Jimmy’s smile, now, is complex. “My own stupid fault for telling him, really. But I can’t…”

“Can’t what? If you feel sick, we can…”

Alastair trails off; even an uncertain number of bottles of beer down, he can’t miss the way Jimmy’s gaze is dancing across his lips.

He just about has time to think _oh_ , and then certain things become inescapably, stunningly clear.

Jimmy closes the gap between them.

There’s a hand at Alastair’s waist, stubble lightly grazing his cheek, a mouth breathing heat against his own. He makes a noise of mingled surprise and protest, but his lips seem to part of their own accord under the other man’s, and he’s already closed his eyes. He feels a smile blossom, briefly, before it melts into the slow, lazy, developing rhythm of their kiss. He tastes sweetness in the midst of the beer.

Thunderous knocking at the door jolts him out of it.

He tries and fails to push away, heart hammering. “Swanny—”

“Don’t worry,” Jimmy says, “he’ll keep them out.” He’s tracing the line of Alastair’s jaw with a fingertip.

Alastair feels shock at Jimmy’s blithe unconcern, but it’s distant, something on the far side of a haze of alcohol and kiss. He struggles to stay alert: _this is wrong this is wrong_. “I was thinking more about what if he walks in.”

Jimmy laughs. “Don’t worry,” he says again. “He’ll cope. He’d better.”

Alastair doesn’t have time to puzzle this out – how could Swanny be expected to _cope_? – because Jimmy’s moving closer and launching into a more urgent kiss. He feels Jimmy’s hand sliding under his shirt and the other man’s thigh pushing its way in between his legs, and the noise he makes this time definitely isn’t a protest. He curls a hand behind Jimmy’s neck, pulling him closer, greedy for more.

He hears the buzz and click of the door; but that sound, too, is held at bay by the haze and by the heat pooling in his groin. He doesn’t really register it at all until Jimmy breaks off the kiss and sits bolt upright, pushing himself up with the hand that isn’t currently exploring Alastair’s chest. He leaves that one right where it is, though, and his leg, too, and he looks angry rather than alarmed.

So, at first, Alastair just goes still, rather than plunging into all-out panic.

But Jimmy’s expression slides from annoyance into confusion almost as soon as his head is above the edge of the bed. “ _Joe_ …?”

“Game’s up,” Root’s voice is merry. “Hand it over, Jimmy!”

“How did _you_ get in here?”

And then. “Sorry, Jimmy—”

Swanny’s voice.

Alastair goes cold, instantly, like he’s been dunked in an ice bath. He scrambles clear of Jimmy, then sits up against the bed, hugging his knees and keeping his head down. Staring at the brown-on-brown carpet fighting to breathe fighting to not be sick _what have I done?_

_What the hell have I just done?_

“—wrestled me to the ground,” Swanny’s saying, sounding out of breath, “and swiped the keycard.”

Footsteps approach, stop abruptly. Alastair knows he’s been seen, knows what this must look like.

_Oh, Swanny. I’m so sorry…_

He lifts his head, slowly, expecting to find himself looking into the hurt, accusing face of Swanny. Instead he sees Joe, who looks mildly surprised but rallies quickly with, “Evening, Cooky!” and a bashful grin. Then he raises two open bottles of beer above his head.

“All right, Jimmy,” he says. “Surrender the stump, or the bed gets both barrels.”

“Oi!” Swanny’s alarm fills the room. “That’s _my_ bed! What’s this got to do with me?”

Alastair hears what must be Swanny darting forward, sees Joe skip out of his reach. He pulls himself up off the carpet, relying heavily on the edge of the bed. “Don’t mind me,” he says, quickly. “I was just leaving.”

He dodges his way past a scuffling, laughing Swanny and Joe, and then the contingent of Yorkshire and other spectators at the door; doesn’t look back, even in response to pats on the back and friendly greetings.

Only Trotty, standing at the back of the crowd, looks at him properly, and says, “You all right, Cooky?”

Alastair forces a quick smile. “Fine. Just – bathroom.” Trotty nods, turns his attention back to the stand off.

Alastair’s legs just about hold him up on the way back up the corridor to his own room. He fumbles in his pocket for his keycard, trying not to remember Jimmy’s hand at his waist or the tongue against his lips, pushing into his mouth. Trying not to remember how eager he was to kiss Swanny’s lover in Swanny’s own room.

“Cooky, wait!”

Alastair finally wrenches his door open, and slams it shut against the sound of Jimmy’s voice.

\--

**#viewofaroom: Jimmy’s hotel room, Nagpur. Resembles the site of a small but determined tornado.**

The morning after the night before. The afternoon. The evening.

Over and over again, nothing from Ali: no sign, no sound.

Jimmy’s knocked at Ali’s door and tried calling him on his room phone so many times that he’s started to worry he’s turning into a stalker, and made himself stop. He’s rationed himself to two blandly innocuous texts ( _Hope your head’s ok this morning_ and _You about?_ ); hasn’t dared to call Ali’s mobile for fear of leaving a tell-tale trail in his call log for his wife or some other interested party to find.

(His own phone’s log is a testament to Swanny’s attempts, last night, to warn him the Yorkies were en route. A text that reads _get out of there go to your room now_ , another saying _TOO LATE_ , and two missed calls. Jimmy found the phone after he tried and failed to stop Ali running off: on the floor, on the wrong side of the bed. _Shit_.)

Their flight home is at midnight; they’re due to leave the hotel in just over an hour. Some thoughtful person at the ECB booked them an extra night here, even though they aren’t staying for most of it, to give them some recovery time after the celebrations.

Is he ready? Is he fuck. He woke up late, hungover from the beer and hard from a dream in which the whole thing with Ali being his hostage went quite a bit further than it had in reality. He’s spent the day listlessly moving clothes from one pile to another, lying on his bed staring at the ceiling, and being distracted by images from last night. He’s been trying to reconcile two contrasting memories of Ali: the pressure of his hand at the nape of Jimmy’s neck as they kissed; and the rushed, awkward finality of the way he fled the room.

True, it’s pretty embarrassing to be almost caught snogging a teammate, so Jimmy can understand Ali’s hasty exit. But the silence, now, is ominous, weighted with implication. Did Jimmy come on too strong? Did he misread things entirely?

(It wouldn’t, as it happens, be the first time.)

On the thought, his phone buzzes. He’s not really disappointed that it’s Swanny. (He is, a bit.)

_packed and repacked three times. absolutely, totally, MONUMENTALLY bored. r u busy?_

Jimmy hesitates for a while, then texts back:

_You know how to make a boy feel wanted. In my room_

Swanny's response is almost instant.

_ok, get your face on, darling. ill be there in 5 x_

Almost as soon as he’s put the phone down, there’s a knock at the door.

“Jesus, Swanny,” Jimmy mutters as he opens it, “were you texting from—”

He stops. Because it’s Ali on the other side of it. Pale cheeks and dark around the eyes.

“Can we talk?” he says, quietly, without meeting Jimmy’s gaze, and Jimmy already knows how this will go.

He steps back to let him in; closes his eyes, briefly, as the other man passes him. He shuts the door, shoves his hands in his pockets, and waits for Ali to start it. End it.

“About…” Ali swallows. The strain’s visible on his face, in the muscle twitching just above his jaw. (Jimmy’s watching Ali, even if Ali’s not looking at him.) “About last night. I just wanted to say… I’m sorry.”

“Okay.” Jimmy keeps his face still. Inside, he steels himself.

“It was a mistake. I was drunk and I…” Ali swallows again. “I led you on, and I’m sorry.” He rubs his face, hands lingering over his mouth like they’re holding something in, and then dropping away. He finally looks up, but right past Jimmy, straight at the ceiling as he delivers the killer blow. “You see, I’m not… I’m not gay.”

 _Nor am I_ , Jimmy thinks, but doesn’t say. Something tells him it’s probably not the best time to start explaining bisexuality.

(This hurts.)

He watches Ali flexing his hands, curling his fingers into fists and opening them out, over and over again, and remembers again the hand at his neck last night: Ali pulling him closer, the strength of his response, the sensations of kissing and of _being kissed_.

He wants, very badly, to argue with him, now.

But he can’t. He won’t. Ali wouldn’t be the first guy to go to bed drunkenly experimental, and wake up stone-cold straight. It’s that simple.

(It isn’t. It is.)

Ali sighs. “I’m married,” he’s saying, quietly, “and you’re… taken, and as captain I should know better. Behave better. I’ve got no right to come between—”

There’s a knock at the door. “That’ll be Swanny,” Jimmy says, his voice rough.

Ali’s expression hardens. “I should go,” he says; and he does.

When he comes in, Swanny takes one look at the departing Ali and one look at Jimmy, and doesn’t ask; he just squeezes Jimmy’s shoulder, briefly, once the door’s closed behind the captain, and then sets to work helping Jimmy pack.

\--

For the second time in as many nights, Alastair is stumbling along the corridor to the sanctuary of his hotel room.

His heart is in his mouth. He’s heard that phrase a hundred times, never really understood it until now. The fullness and the pain of it.

There’s no voice calling him after tonight, though, and if his hands are shaking when he slides the keycard in, it has nothing to do with beer this time.

He’s so ashamed about last night that he couldn’t even bring himself to _mention_ the worst part: Jimmy’s words about Swanny, _He’ll cope_.

There’s no getting away from how callous that sounds, in the cold light of day. And it’s his fault.

He doesn’t know what’s going on between them, but he won’t – he can’t – be the instrument of making it worse. He’s got a duty to the team, has to put that ahead of himself. Going round enticing a teammate to cheat on his boyfriend – on Graeme, one of his best friends – is certainly not what people expect from their captain. Or what he expects from himself.

He’s a better man than this. He has to be.

Alastair sinks onto the bed, next to his open suitcase. Balances his elbows on his knees, lets his head sink into his hands, and tells himself, over and over again, that he’s done the right thing.

**Author's Note:**

> The #viewofaroom hashtag is inspired by twitter exchanges between Broad, Prior and Anderson during the India tour (in which it was #viewfromaroom). #viewofacarpet comes from the same sources, but that's not relevant until chapter four...


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